New York, New York

Thoughts on my recent trip to New York:

• When you make a purchase, you don't get a receipt if you don't ask for one, and then sometimes you still don't get one.
  
• Every single time we asked for something in a store or ordered a meal in a restaurant, our request was answered with "You gaht it."
• When they say "toll road" in New York, they really, really mean it.
• It costs a whole lot of $ to get into New York City. What I cannot fathom is WHY?!!!
  
• New Yorkers in general, and New York drivers in particular have a reputation. All I know for sure is that I have seen polite-er and courteous-er drivers in Houston and Dallas and Los Angeles.
• Bumper sticker on a taxi: "Save gas, call a cab." Do cabs in New York run on air or something?
• Police cars in New York have light bars that can stick straight up!
  
• Hwy 117K... Exit 1-41P.... Huh?
  

Trip Trivia

• There is a serious distinction between the "Delaware beaches" and the "Jersey shore." And don't you forget it.
• From antiquity, Easterners seem to have a predilection for bestowing odd sorts of names on places. Most notable are those containing the words "kill" and "neck."
• Favored convenience store in Delaware: Wawa's. Wawa's...?
• There is a lot more to Delaware than you might think there would be.
• There are stinging flies back East. Burly, belligerent, territorial stinging flies, to borrow a phrase from my favorite cousin.
• When they say "toll" in this part of the country, they are not kidding around!
  

Highway Headaches

It does not take long to develop a headache while traveling on the highway, and we could tell, almost immediately, that we were working up to one of epic proportions.

We had spent a happy weekend at the beach and were all set for a three-hour drive to West Point. Our friends saw us safely to the Delaware Bridge, and then we were all alone, armed only with a printout of Google directions. We decided, early on, to stop and buy a road map, for "just in case." Easy enough.

We pulled over into the first truck stop and went inside, where a rack of maps beckoned from the far corner. We made our way over there to find myriads of maps, from a NASCAR Atlas and a city map of Philadelphia to all sorts of other obscurities, but the multi-state (small states, mind you) map we sought did not seem to exist. There were maps of individual states galore ($5.00 each), but do we really need a Texas-size map of New Jersey? If we can get the whole state of Texas on one $5.00 map, the New Jersey map ought to go for about 25 cents.

We already knew we were going to be too late for the Highland Falls reception that afternoon, but we had tentative hopes of arriving in time for the evening's band concert at West Point, and after a cursory study of the map, we were pleased to determine that the Google directions were right on track. So we folded the map, replaced it on the rack, bought a couple of sodas ("pop" in New Jersey) to mitigate our guilt at not buying the map, and hit the road.

We were making good time, keeping one eye on Google, and all was well until we exited, as per Google directions, and found ourselves in Never Never Land. Just like that, we were lost, on a freeway that Google never heard of. After wandering around like the tribes of Israel, we stopped at a gas station to see if we could figure out where we were. It was absolutely the only civilization in sight, and we were happy to see a sign proclaiming "Open 24 Hours a Day." Only when we tried to go in the door was locked.

Then we noticed the attendants across the parking lot at the pumps. Oh, yeah, we found out later, this was New Jersey. The only state that doesn't allow self-service. No wonder the price of gas is $4.79. After finally getting the attention of a non-English-speaking attendant,we were directed through a garage door where we were met by a non-English-speaking customer service specialist.

We asked if he had any maps and he took us into another room where there was a whole counter full of maps...under lock and key. We asked if we could see the maps; he countered with which map did we want? It took every persuasive power we could muster up to convince him that we did not know where we were, and we really didn't know which map we needed.

I'm not so sure he knew where we were, either, but abruptly, after soundly berating us for using Google instead of MapQuest, an "AHA!" look came over his face and he began pointing frantically at the highway in front of us, directing us to "Tappan Zee Bridge." Huh???

Not knowing enough to even discuss the situation intelligently, we got back on the highway in search of the Tappan Zee. At one point we actually saw a sign for it, but then all at once we were at the George Washington Bridge. Well, there's nothing like the blind leading the blind, and across we went. Suddenly the highway was tracking with Google again and we were feeling hopeful that we might actually make West Point in time for the concert.

And then it began to rain in a torrent that would have done credit to Noah. The rain went on for miles, or maybe it just seemed miles, reduced as we were to a speed of about 10 mph. We re-evaluated our goal: Forget the concert, let's just get there.

On we went, holding our breath, while the storm raged away. It eventually cleared up and gave way to the most gorgeous of scenery, but we could not afford to squander one bit of our attention on it. Up and up and up we went into the mountains, sheer rock walls going straight up on both sides. And then going around a bend, we unexpectedly came to the edge of a cliff. We pulled over and got out of the car and found ourselves looking down in amazement at a medieval fairy tale of clouds and castles.

West Point! And in time for the concert! But, alas, when we presented ourselves at Stony Lonesome Gate, we were informed that due to the rain the concert had been canceled. All that worry for nothing! And then all that was left was to get ready for tomorrow.

Before going to the hotel for the night, we visited the local convenience store on a quest for local picture postcards, the kind that used to proliferate at every gas station and drugstore. It seems they are becoming a thing of the past, and there were none to be found that night. But, we did find that mythical multi-state (the entire northeast) map we had searched for earlier, and I was semi-happy to plop down $5.00 for it. Where was this map when we needed it? Well, never mind, we had it now.

We went back to our hotel then, but between another roaring thunderstorm and knowing we had to be up at 4 the next morning, sleeping that night was something of an exercise in futility.

The next day, my Man and I dropped M off at R-Day and prepared to head home. On our way north, we had been faced with a superfluity of toll booths, and while they were many, we consoled ourselves with the fact that the tolls were small, ranging from 35 cents (Why do they even bother?) up to $1.10; now we armed ourselves with a pocket full of quarters, in addition to our new map and our trusty Google directions. And optimism.

Google came into question once more, almost immediately, when it directed us to Highway 17K. K? What kind of a highway number is that?! But, whaddya know, Google was right again, and we took off down Highway 17K on our "three-hour" trip to Long Island MacArthur Airport.

That three-hour trip was replete with its own set of quirks and glitches. Right off the bat we met up with a toll booth. "Only" $1.10. We were amused (well, sorta amused) by the EZ Pay signs announcing an upcoming toll booth. Like they were advertising a desirable product of some sort. We forked over our $, and went through, and as soon as we got up to speed on the other side, the traffic started s-l-o-w-i-n-g d-o-w-n. It stayed that way for quite awhile, making us glad that we had allowed five hours for our three-hour trip. We never saw what happened to cause the delay, but after awhile it sped up again, just like it had slowed.

Before long we started to notice signs for the Tappan Zee/George Washington bridge. Google had noted this stretch of highway as "partial toll," so we weren't overly disturbed to find ourselves confronted with yet another toll booth. I stopped and rolled down the window, little coin purse in hand, ready to whip out a couple of quarters when I heard, "$8.00." "EIGHT DOLLARS?!!!" I shrieked. The toll taker calmly pointed down at a sign, and sure enough, there it was: "Cars $8.00." Well, then...Excuse me while I dig deep down in my purse for my big bucks. I apologized for my outburst, explaining that we were from Texas and knew nothing, thank goodness, about that sort of thing.

While I had his attention, I inquired about the bridge. Is it Tappan Zee, or is it George Washington? He took it all in stride, and bless his heart, being that rarest of public servants who is not only courteous, but actually knows more than just "his job," he was able to he clear up that little mystery for us. He explained that the northgoing lanes make the Tappan Zee bridge, and the southgoing lanes make the George Washington bridge. The Tappan Zee, as we had already noticed on our way north, was free, while the George Washington more than made up for that fact.

Then he asked me where we were going. I told him, and he offered directions which, we were pleased to note, matched right up with our Google directions. "After you cross the bridge, go right and then get on the Trog's Neck bridge." Trog's Neck?! What kind of name is that? Oh, wait. I know, I know...whatever a trog may be, the name is pure, quintessential New Yoahk. What he failed to tell us was that it would cost us another $5.00 to cross the trog's neck. I guess he was saving that for a surprise.

Lacking any sort of options, we girded up our loins and set out across the bridge. So far so good, but as we merged onto the trog's neck, we just barely missed being sideswiped by a car which almost missed the bridge altogether. We made it across untouched, just barely, and into Queens, down through a tunnel, and out into the Twilight Zone on yet another freeway unknown to Google.

We were going along at a pretty good clip, not really knowing where we were going. We would have liked to pull over somewhere and consult our map without having to worry about dodging anything, but there isn't enough space to stop a car in that part of the country. I really don't know how they do it. So we kept on going, and just about the time we were ready to throw in the towel, the sign changed, and we were back on track with Google! That was definitely one of the highlights of the trip.

Queens was the last obstacle in our quest for LIMA. That and the rubberneckers ogling a wreck on the other side of the freeway (hate their luck, but, thank You, God, for ours) backing up the traffic for miles. I cannot conceive of anything more nerve-wracking, and how four police cars managed to make it to the scene I cannot even imagine.

One particular point of interest while negotiating the Trog's Neck/Queens/Long Island labyrinth was a sign pointing the way to King's Point, home of the USMMA. M had a passing interest in going there at one time. Good thing that didn't work out.

My hat's off to Google. In retrospect, all of our troubles came from putting our faith in the highway signs instead of in Google. Thanks to M and what turned out to be Google's letter-perfect directions, we were never lost; we only thought we were lost. But sometimes that's as good as the real thing.

From safe at home, thank God for M and Google.

R-Day For Parents

R-Day is fraught with peril for cadets: standing in lines, getting their heads shaved, marching around in the heat, wearing seriously uncomfortable shoes, getting yelled at.... But they already knew about all of that. What nobody told us was that R-Day is perilous for parents as well.

Like new cadets, parents do a great deal of walking on R-Day, and it isn't just a stroll around the block. One of the things you notice immediately, and you will continue to notice throughout the day, is that everything is uphill. It is definitely a day for walking shoes, and if you had the foresight to join your cadet candidate in his physical conditioning program, it is going to pay off right here. Of course, unlike the new cadets, parents have the option of the shuttle bus... If they can figure out how it runs. In our case it was pretty much of a crap shoot, so we depended mostly on our own feet. Thank goodness for all those long walks with our new cadet over the past few months.

In addition to walking, walking, walking, another similarity between cadets' R-Day and parents' R-Day comes to mind, namely weight training.

Cadets get issued a bag of some sort that they carry with them all the livelong day. Every time they stop, someone adds something to the bag, so that by the end of the day I imagine it is quite heavy. And I'm not sure what they did to deserve it, but I noticed in the R-Day pictures, that more than one cadet had two full bags to carry. Did they disregard their packing list and bring too much with them? Well, they were instructed about that before they came, unlike their parents , who received no warning whatsoever.

Upon exiting the auditorium, after the abbreviated 60-second goodbye, most of the parents headed straight for the ballroom where every imaginable vendor had a booth set up. Every parent passing the USAA booth was graciously issued a sturdy canvas tote bag with "Proud Parent of a West Point cadet" written on one side (We made sure we kept that side facing out on our trip home.), and big enough to carry every little thing we might decide to pick up during the day. In addition to this nice roomy bag, most parents opted to spring for the "USMA Class of 2012" bag with their new cadet's name on it, and these, too, were fully loaded by the end of the day.

One problem parents faced that cadets did not, was finding their car when it was time to go home, and before they could look for their car, they had to locate the correct lot. Thanks to our early morning report time, we were able to park in the first lot, and we had actually taken note of where in the first lot we had parked, but not everyone was so visionary. On our way back to our car at the conclusion of the parade, we were surprised to see quite a number of parents sitting on the ground around the edge of our parking lot. Having failed to train adequately for the rigors of R-Day, these parents, defeated by the almost-vertical path up to the first parking lot, sent out scouting parties to search the upper lots and then sat down and waited to be rescued.

And on that car issue...it is hoped that the cadets can follow orders better than can their parents who clogged up the entrance to the first lot in order to avoid having to venture farther up.

But not all was peril at R-Day. Much more was praiseworthy:

Outside of the few who could have benefited from some etiquette training (People standing at the front and holding their cameras at arm's length up over their heads, so that not even the tallest in the back could see over them, come immediately to mind.), most people were friendly and gracious, with a "we're all in this together" sort of attitude.

The MP's were unfailingly polite and ready to give a ride when the shuttle bus service didn't measure up.

We were able to catch welcome glimpses of the new cadets here and there throughout the day, in varying stages of their in-processing and training.

The informative and humorous tone (as well as the content) of the supe's briefing was highly appreciated. Just the chance to sit down and cool off was appreciated by that time, so being educated and entertained all at the same time was a welcome bonus!

And don't forget the parade and the oath ceremony at the end of the day. We had no trouble at all locating our own new cadet, but even before we saw him, we were filled with awe at the accomplishments of the day. The scene at Trophy Point that evening was a whole different world from the scene at Ike Hall that morning.

Perils and Praises...both sides of R-Day. The outstanding one, though, the ultimate peril... was going home cadet-less. That is going to take getting used to.

West Point

We learned a lot on our recent trip to West Point.

It was our first time there, and while we had seen pictures galore, we were totally unprepared for the splendor of the real thing. West Point is breathtaking. It is beautiful. It is magnificent. It is awe-inspiring. It is mighty castles of granite and slate rising majestically from the river's very edge. It is indescribable. It is spectacular. It is a national treasure.

One of the most salient features of West Point is the steep hills rising in every direction. About the only level place we saw all day was The Plain, an ultra-impressive expanse of tenderly-cared-for soft green grass ~ the second-most expensive lawn in America, after the White House lawn.

We were happily surprised to find that if the shuttle bus service leaves something to be desired, at least on R-Day, the MP's are friendly and helpful and willing to do taxi duty if necessary.

We learned that, no matter what obscure need a cadet might have, West Point can meet it. A ride to the train station across the river? The West Point ferry boat stands at the ready. A specialty uniform? They are made in-house in West Point's own Uniform Factory.

West Point is a rich lesson straight from the heart of America's history, the wondrous stuff of legends and epics and heroes, and I am at once proud and humbled to be a part, however minor, of this stately American tradition.

Airport/Airplane Adventures

Adventures are marvelous, and for a somewhat "civilized" adventure, you can't beat a trip on an airplane.

Our leaving adventure was actually pretty uneventful, if you overlook getting up at 4am to make it to the airport in time, and if you overlook getting crammed into not-the-smallest but definitely the most crowded airplane I've ever been on, and if you overlook lugging four hefty carry-ons half a mile in the wrong direction while changing planes in Charlotte with no time to spare, and if you overlook getting trapped for 20 minutes in the plane at Newark and finally having to move the whole show to another gate because the jetway at our original gate wasn't functional, and if you overlook the culture shock that hit us while waiting for our ride out in front of the airport (That was an education all by itself...).

Our trip home, well, it was a bit more exciting, beginning with the fact that we were on our own!!! Well, not completely. Our ex-resident travel agent/tour guide had thoughtfully equipped us with all of our flight paperwork and detailed directions to the airport, and our handy $5.00 multi-state map of the northeast United States was at the ready.

After successfully navigating the LonGIsland freeway, as the natives would say, we saw an opportunity for a real bargain...$4.24 gas! So we stopped to fill up before we returned the car. Much to our amazement, the gas station would not take cash! Or so we mistakenly thought. After some frantic negotiation, it turned out to be nothing more than a slight cross-cultural misunderstanding, and we left feeling victorious: We had outwitted the Cross-Island Expressmaze, paid cash for bargain gas, and almost made it to the airport. Now, according to Google, it remained only to "turn left at Arrivals Avenue." NO! NO!!! We don't want Arrivals! We want Departures!

Well, it's all the same to the Long Island airport, so we turned left and followed the "Car Return" signs on Arrivals Avenue. There were signs for every car rental company, except ours, but luck was with us, and we had to try only two car lots before finding the right one. But that was the end of easy. The parking spaces were labeled with letters and numbers and the name of the company, but nowhere, nowhere, nowhere, was any kind of directions or an attendant to be seen. Was there a shuttle bus to take us to the terminal? Were we supposed to walk to the terminal? Where even was the terminal?!

We decided to go back to square one and take Arrivals Avenue from the beginning, only this time we would take the "This Way to Terminal" lane. We found our way around easily enough and pulled up in front of the terminal. Well, as close as we could get to in front of the terminal. Unattended cars and double parking are apparently the order of the day at the Long Island airport, if that nearly lounging security guard was any indication. We waved and yelled to get his attention and finally persuaded him to come over. Not that he was any help. The best we were able to get out of him was that the car rental counters were clear at the opposite end of the airport, so we took off again. At the end of the terminal, my Man went inside to inquire and was able to ascertain that we should leave our car in the lot, write down the mileage, walk back to the terminal, and return the key.

We still didn't know where the lot was relative to the terminal, and we had a lot of baggage, so we drove back around Arrivals Avenue one more time to the front of the terminal where we unloaded and momentarily abandoned our (triple-parked) car while we lugged all of our stuff into a shady place. We agreed that my Man would babysit our luggage while I hopefully went off to divest myself of the PT Cruiser.

This time, as soon as I pulled into a parking place in the lot, a young man came right up and held out his hand for the keys. Should I give them to him? Where was he the first time we were here? Why did they tell us to bring the keys inside? Who is this guy, anyway?! Well, he had a scanner in his hand, and he was wearing a B_____ Car Rental shirt, and he seemed to be asking the right questions: "Do you have your contract?" "What's your mileage?" "Did you fill it up?" Sooooo...I threw caution to the wind and gave him the keys. He said, "If they say anything in there, just tell them to call me." Oh, ok, noooo problem....

Well, we only thought we had unloaded the car. After really unloading it, I headed out across the wasteland like a pack animal, loaded down with two sweaters, a briefcase, a bottle of water, a bottle of Coke, and of course my purse, and made it into the terminal and to the right counter where I attempted to return the car to a not-too-communicative clerk. Oh, dear...I can see the makings of another cross-cultural misunderstanding here. But the other clerk at the counter was merciful and came over to get things sorted out. Turns out the Phantom of the Parking Lot was actually their guy, so that was good news.

Finally free of the PT Cruiser, I set out to join my Man and our luggage, only to find that they were not where I had left them. Oh, no! Lost in New York! I located them shortly, though, where they had managed to drag themselves out of the shade into the air conditioning.

We proceeded to the checkout counter where we got our boarding passes and were directed to check our luggage at a distant counter (huh???!), and then we headed over to join the short line to go through security. We passed the metal detector portion of the test and were putting our shoes back on when a burly security guard came rushing over. "Sih! Sih! Sih! Is this youah stuff?" Yes, yes, what about it? He held up my Man's treasured pocket knife and said, "You can't take this with you." Oh, rats. This is the only knife he has managed not to lose, and he really likes it. "You'll have to put it in your checked baggage." Oh, really? That baggage is already long gone, or I wouldn't be here, now, would I? "Do you have someone you could give it to?" Oh, sure. Would you like to have it? Well, whatever the fate of the pocketknife, it's safe to say that unlike at some other airports, the Long Island security guys are definitely on their toes.

Slightly (well, more than slightly, to be honest) peeved at being left pocketknife-less, we made our way up the escalator to the boarding gates and paused a moment before the monitor to see that our gate, and everybody else's gate, was A-2. Could that be right?

We took off in that direction, and sure enough, A-4 empty, A-3 empty, but A-2...Well, now, A-2 was host to a multitude of Biblical proportions, well appointed with a host of screaming little kidlets. We found a seat over by the wheelchairs and settled in. Surely all of these people weren't as early as we were? Surely there was another departure before our own flight two hours in the future? Well, whaddya know, there was (#3169 to Foht Lawdehdale) scheduled out of A-2 an hour ahead of ours (What was wrong with the other gates?) (Maybe the jetways didn't work...?), and we fantasized that all of these screaming little darlin's might sail away on it.

Time came and time went for the flight ahead of ours, and no move was made to board it, other than by the passengers who were beginning to line up. After about 20 minutes, someone came out and announced that the plane had sucked a bird into the engine on the way in and they were checking to be sure it was ok to go back out. This was mildly interesting to us, but as the time for our flight approached, we began to fidget.

Suddenly we heard an announcement over the intercom: We just want to be suah that everyone going to Baltimoah knows theih flight has been changed to Gate A-3. How would we know? Nobody told us! Well, never mind, we, along with half the population of A-2, are on our way. It was boarding at once, complete, alas, with our quota of screaming kidlets, plenty to go around.

We found a row of empty seats in the waaaaay back and sat down to wait while the rest of the passengers boarded. Most of them were filling in the gaps toward the front, but then a family carrying an odoriferous bag from McDonald's espied the very last empty row on the plane directly behind us and came barreling down the aisle to stake their claim. Finally, The Groom, as identified by his t-shirt, made his way back to sit in the last empty seat left. Next to me.

After a minor mishap of two cans of soda ("pop" in New Yoahk) exploding and spraying the back galley, the pilot revved up the engines and dimmed the lights, and we all settled in for our restful late evening flight (leaving Flight 3169 to Foht Lawdehdale of bird-in-the-engine fame still perched at Gate A-2, over an hour late by this time).

Oh, wait...Forget restful... As soon as the engines started to roar and the pressure started to change, all those little kidlets started to cry. And then The Groom whipped out his little iPod or MP3 player or whatever it was, stuck it in his ear, and cranked it up loud enough for me to hear over the wailing kidlets. And then the girl behind us started to sing. Yep...On Top of Old Smokey, belted out in a quavering off-key voice that sounded unlike anything we'd ever heard before. And when the song was finished, she started LAUGHING OUT LOUD in an eerie sort of cackle. I hazarded a quick glance behind us to see if perhaps a Twilight Zone escapee might have taken refuge there, but no...it was just this everyday, ordinary, normal-looking family of two old parents and one late-teenage girl. Fortunately, my ears plugged up, as ears are wont to do on airplanes, so quiet reigned for the rest of the way home.

Yes, adventures are definitely marvelous...but nothing tops the comfortable and comforting adventure of coming home.